


Happy Birthday, Daddy

by fullonzombae



Category: iZombie (TV)
Genre: Birthday, F/M, Grief/Mourning, in which Blaine isn't a complete dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 20:05:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13508817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullonzombae/pseuds/fullonzombae
Summary: Sometimes, Mark Moore's birthday passes without incidence, with nothing more than flowers laid at his grave. But today isn't one of those days.





	Happy Birthday, Daddy

One day, Liv had told herself, she wouldn't be standing by her father's grave alone. She had told Peyton, Major and everyone else who cared that she preferred it this way, that she preferred the solitude. Or the time alone. It had become ritual, even.

Today, her father would have been sixty. In Liv's mind, she had planned the perfect birthday. Of course, it was a plan that could never come to pass. She'd spent two years planning his fiftieth birthday, as if there was even a slither of hope that it might happen. She'd planned his sixtieth for the next three, until eventually the idea of a birthday that would never have come became too much. So she sat here, alone. For a January day, the weather was mild enough, pleasant enough, and she sat beside the headstone, her arms wrapped around her legs.

"She knows now, Dad," Liv whispered. The graveyard was silent, with the exception of the quietest ruffling of the leaves. She closed her eyes, letting the wind tangle in her hair. "Mom's known for six weeks, and three days. I've still not heard a word from her."

Should she blame her mother? Liv didn't know. But she had seen the security crackdowns at the hospital, as 'non-living peoples' were banned from the wards. NLPs. Three letters used to demonize the zombies of Seattle, and three letters used to keep them where they were meant to be. In the shadows.

"What would you have thought of me, Daddy?" she asked, and she could have sworn she felt a lump form in her throat. "Would I have... Would you have understood? You were always the one who got it. The one who begged Mom to fork out for ballet lessons. I could never catch up." She knew she wouldn't get an answer. But this was the life she missed. Her mother's tough, but unconditional, love. Her father's tenderness, and willingness to fight for Liv's dreams.

"I bet he'd have been proud."

Liv jumped at the voice behind her, and turned to find Blaine, standing in a leather duster jacket. It was as if he was deliberately channeling some 90's TV vampire. Was it sarcasm that she'd somehow missed? His words had sounded surprisingly sincere.

"Sorry. Was scoping out a plot for a client." Blaine crossed over to sit down beside her, pulling a flask of whiskey out of his jacket. He unscrewed the top and took a swig, before passing it over to Liv. "Sixty, huh?"

"He didn't live to see fifty, Blaine. It's not worth celebrating." She took the flask and took a long sip. "Meanwhile, there's monsters in this world, blessed with immortality. Pigs, who get to..." She trailed off, and took another swig of the whiskey, pulling a face as she swallowed, the liquid warming her insides with that familiar bitterness that had accompanied the many times she had pretended she could outdrink Peyton.

"Pigs who live to see their hundredth birthday. I get it, Liv. Really." He considered telling her just how old the whiskey she was treating like cheap vodka was - older than him - but that thought alone might just depress her. "I mean, hell. I've had however many chances, and I think I deserved something like none of them."

Liv answered with a tight-lipped, unmoved smile. If he expected sympathy, she could tell him now that he wouldn't get it. If he wanted her to argue, to reason with him, then she could resist any dormant desire to do so. She took one last sip before handing the flask back to Blaine.

"I meant what I said, Liv." He screwed the cap back onto the flask, before pocketing. He stood, brushing his jeans down as he did so. "We might not have always seen eye-to-eye. Damn, there's an understatement if ever I gave one. But yeah. He'd have been proud of you. I know that won't bring him back. But I hope it helps." Turning towards the headstone, he nodded once, his appearance solemn. "... Happy Birthday, Mr Moore."


End file.
